Bodyguard
by PuddingCh4n
Summary: John is a poor man that does not have much money left in his pension from the army. He finds a job but is it only what the job description entails or will it be more? Shwatson, SherlockxJohn, JohnxSherlock, PreSlashfic, SherlockxMoriarty (little bit), hate/love relationship, fluff (later on)
1. Chapter 1

Lost. Befuddled. The smell of spring caressed his olfactory cells, triggering memories of love once had, love now lost. His heart pounded thunderously against his chest as shooting pains assaulted his heart. He knew it was all chemically driven, he could almost hear the man's voice, a jeer "It's all in the brain, there is no emotion that will cause your heart to feel pain." And yet, as he clutched his shirt, his left hand resting above his heart, he could not breathe, could not move. All he could feel was his brain telling his heart to shatter as the smell of pine burned his eyes and caused his knees to grow weak. In front of the park, on his favorite bench, John Watson broke down.

* * *

Chapter 1: Manners

It was only a matter of time before he was shot. He had served in the service previous but had decided to stay a few extra years. Constant stress, adrenaline, being instructed what to do. He was the perfect soldier, obeying orders and being able to cope under the line of fire but one bloody shot and he was sent away back to his home, the home that never existed.

There he stood, outside his parent's house. It was small and barely kept, the grass looked tangled and thorns rushed out to claw at his trouser legs, as he walked to the door. The paint was badly chipped; robin egg blue had become a dead faded sea foam like green. The blinds on the windows had been badly mistreated, some of the pieces falling off. He pressed the doorbell but it did not make a sound, the battery had died months before. He then knocked on the door and waited a few minutes but no one opened the door. John pulled out his phone and began to text a simple message.

'I'm home. Where are you? JW'

Not even a minute of waiting, the door swung open.

"JOHN?"

It was Harriett, his one and only sister. The two embraced and laughed. She ushered him inside and took his one bag only to drop it unceremoniously on the floor.

"What are you doing back so early?" She eyed the phone in his hand and smiled.

"How's that piece of crap treating you?"

She walked to the kitchen and grabbed a whiskey bottle off the table. He could smell it on her when she had hugged him, he had hoped it was a something, anything else, but he knew she was still addicted to the drink. The kitchen was small and surprisingly clean, it reminded him of the younger days when things were…easier.

"Harry, it's 11am, are you sure you should be drinking?"

She glared at him before taking a swig.

"Mind your own business, you can be such a tit sometimes."

John sighed and looked around the house. The couches in the living room were new but everything else in the house felt ragged and old. He could smell the must of the house and crinkled his nose as the smell of mold lingered in the air.

"Why didn't you answer the door Harry? Didn't you hear me knock?"

Harriett put the bottle back on the table and sat down on the dining room chair. It creaked under her weight and John was worried that the wood would break.

"The family has been having some trouble lately and it's hard for us to pay bills. I thought you were a debt collector."

She put her head in her hands, worry lines striking her face. John finally noticed the wrinkles, the way her eyes were hollowed out. He walked over and put an arm around his sister.

"Why didn't you send a letter?"

She smiled sadly; her idle hands beginning to play with the bottle.

"To ask for what? More money? I lost my job a few months back and we've just had a hard time. Things will get better. The money you sent us is at least keeping the house from being taken from the bank."

John shifted uncomfortably at the thought of his bank account. He stayed with the military because they were paying him. Because he could send money to his family and just do what he did best, listen and take orders.

Harriett looked up at John and informed him that 'Mum' would not be home until after 6pm. He nodded and gave her a swift hug before grabbing his bag and reaching the door handle.

"Where are you going?" She asked suddenly, rising from her chair.

He gave a light wave before opening the door.

"Don't tell mom I came back, I will come sometime to surprise her. Besides, I can't stay here, we only have 2 rooms and I need a place to stay. The military isn't going to take me back." The last part was low and quiet.

He heard her sharp intake of air. She knew exactly what was going on in John's head. There was no more money, no more backups.

"I need to find another occupation. Then, I'm going to find my own place, Lord knows I can't be living with my parents when I'm 25."

He tried to laugh, to be cheerful for his younger sister but even to him, his laughter was fake, fragile, dying. He quickly walked out the house and closed the door. In the military, you didn't need to be fake; this new world that required a mask was difficult. He did not understand completely yet just how to be social. He strode forward and walked toward the city, he could feel Harriett's eyes on him through the kitchen window as he walked away.

The city was bustling as usual. Hot dog stands around every corner and large buildings that loomed over his head. At first John was uncomfortable, there was too much noise, too many cars, it was unbearable. His hands clenched together as he walked forward, constantly forward. His knuckles were white and he could feel his skin on his palm, beginning to give way as his fingernails began to dig into it. Then he realized this was like the battlefield without the guns and explosives. The cars were tanks; the people were his military unit, very similar but not the same.

John did not realize that his feet had taken him to the middle of the city until he accidently bumped into someone.

"Excuse me." He said.

"Watch it." Was the snarky reply. John could tell this person was a student by her backpack and the fact that, even when bumped, she did not lift her head from her notes.

John had never gone to college; he went to the military right after high school and honestly, had never thought of coming back, let alone moving towards a higher degree. He stepped away from the school and smiled sheepishly to anyone that was looking at him strangely, as his stomach growled loudly. Head down, he quickly walked into a coffee shop to order something, anything to satiate his hunger. There were many students speaking softly about exams, some sleeping in the comfortable armchairs and many on their computers, probably on Facebook, or Tumblr. The smell of coffee and tea electrified his nerves as he remembered he had not had his normal cup of the day. He ordered a large cup of Earl Grey and a bagel before finding a seat in the corner next to the window.

"Need to find a place to live…and a job."

He mumbled to himself as he grabbed a newspaper from the racks. He had some money in his bank account that would keep him alive for the next few months. However, it was only a matter of time before his money dwindled into nothing. He checked his phone as it buzzed. And turned it over face down. Another text from his sister, he didn't need the stress right now of being polite and sociable. He knew that she would ask him to spend a few nights at home until he found his feet. He knew there wasn't room for him, it was cramped already.

"I don't want a maid." A loud exasperated sigh reached John's ears before another man in a smooth, almost cogent voice interrupted the first man's tantrum.

"A maid will be able to assist you in times of when you are required to take your medicine."

"Mycroft, maid's touch my things. I don't want them touching my things." A scorn, a cup being placed back onto the table. John could almost feel the younger man's face frowning as he said this.

"But that's what maids are SUPPOSE to do. Clean." The older man's voice was full of exacerbation. The image of this man in an Armani suit throwing his hands up in aggravation came to mind.

"Besides, most maids are trying to get me in bed." That arrogant voice again. A swig of coffee. " The last one tried to 'wake me up' by climbing into bed with me and offering her 'services'." He said this while using his hands to quote the air.

John could feel the tension in the air as the people around the two men gave them pointed looks. They were being too loud for a coffee shop; this was a place of studying, relaxing, not discussing one's sex life.

"And did you assent her services?"

The pale man smirked. "Of course." A dramatic pause surrounded them as he could almost hear the chairs creak toward the two in hopes to hear more in detail. It was like a drama series in real life.

"I told her to fetch my dry cleaning, to clean my room and clean the kitchen after I was done with it. I left her a nice mess after I forgot the fire had been left on 'high' while I was cooking my marinara sauce. I had become intrigued with a program on the telly; it was about trees. Didn't realize that marinara had exploded until she came in and screamed about the mess I had created." Eyes rolled. "It **is** her job to clean, right?"

Blue clashed with brown and John felt his breath hitch in his throat. He coughed before looking at the newspaper again. He hadn't realized he was staring at the two men. He tried to focus on the words but felt as though he wanted to see that blue again. It wasn't a bright blue like a sapphire or the old paint on his parent's house it was cloudier, mistier color. He sipped his tea, bitter. The tea bag was in too long; it was strong. Maybe granite blue… gray? He gulped another swig of tea. Lukewarm at best. He couldn't decide on the color, he needed another look.

"Are you a maid?"

John looked at the classified section for an apartment near the campus, it was nice, and maybe he could afford to take a few classes. 'Doctor' sounded fun. He took a bite of bagel. Too much bread, not enough cream cheese. He suddenly felt a presence close to him, a warm body standing a little too close, an intoxicating smell entering his nostrils. John looked up, his mouth full of bagel and found those gray eyes boring into his.

"ahm thowy?" (I'm sorry?) His mouth was dry; the bagel was too much as it made it difficult for him to get the words out properly. He held up his hand before taking another drink of tea and chewing quickly. An amused look from the curly haired man.

"Are you a maid?" The same words directed towards him. The man was dressed well; he was groomed, made of money. His perfectly dark curly hair framed his pale face, making his eyes almost glow. His black dress shirt was prim and ironed. Slacks fitted to match the curves of his body. John shook his head 'no.' He was definitely upper class.

"Then, stop staring at me and hunt somewhere else like a gun store or an army surplus store, I'm sure they will appreciate your history." John's eyes widened in surprise then came down in anger.

" I wasn't staring." What was wrong with his brain, his mouth? Why was he standing up for himself over something so trivial and why was he not asking about how this man new about his past?

"You've been looking at my brother and I for the past 3 minutes. Eavesdropping, I'm sure." John cringed in a guilty way. "Unless you have some important business with us, I suggest you stop listening and pay attention to your project of job searching at hand."

John looked at him confused. "Do I-"

"No, you don't know me, why would you know me? I don't know your alcoholic brother either, if you are wondering. I just know that by the look of your bag, hair, and clean shaven face, you've recently come from the military. You don't usually eat bagels from that large bite you took and you are looking for a flat or/and a job considering that you've been looking diligently, when not drooling over my brother and I, at the classified page. Now, bugger off."

The rude stranger began to walk away toward his rightful seat.

John looked down and grew angry. He was tired of this man insinuating he liked men. He had only dated women. He clenched his teeth.

"Sister."

Scrape of shoes on the floor.

"Excuse me?"

John dared to look at him directly in the eye and said through clenched teeth.

"My sister. I don't have a brother."

The older man in the chair smiled as the younger male looked upset, bewildered.

"Sis…ter."

The man named Mycroft, looked at his watch and stood up. His classy, most likely expensive Italian loafers, made an almost acoustic 'clunk' on the wood floor as he uncrossed his legs.

"Sherlock, the driver is waiting, it's time for your class and my business meeting."

Mycroft walked over and steered the pale man by his elbow. "Pleasant day." He said to John as the younger man continued his onslaught of internal turmoil inside.

"Sister! I had assumed the whiskey during the day and engravings on the phone. Harry! Short for Harriet, of course, of course!" He continued to mumble to himself as Mycroft pushed him out the coffee store. "Always something wrong…Always something."

John watched through the window as he was ushered into the black car, Mycroft close behind him. He watched until they turned a corner, away from sight. John sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He could feel many of the coffee shop's customer's eyes on him, watching him, seeing how he would react. He told himself to relax; he was never going to see that man again. He opened his eyes and felt everyone's eyes suddenly move away, pretending to be doing something important. He sighed and looked through the classified section, again.

'Sherlock… What a prat.'

* * *

Please tell me what you think (:

Chapter 1 and chapter 2 are setups for chapter 3 on. 3 is when things really start to unravel. So please hang on!

I unfortunately do not have a Beta tester and am unsure of how satisfactory the grammar and spelling is.

Thanks so much~~ Rini

Disclamer: I don't own any part of Sherlock. But they are amazing!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2; Dark to Light

Uncomfortable bed. Squeaky. John got up and walked to the bathroom. With a quick turn of the knob, he turned the shower on. Cold floors. Tiles, white. Fluorescent lights. Dark.

He knew that being in a motel wasn't the best circumstances but nothing in the paper provided him of interest relating to a decent job. There _was_ an ad about selling his kidney that was offering over ten thousand. He almost called, _almost._ Somehow he couldn't get the thought of him in a bathtub full of ice and a huge stitch on the side out of his mind.

Lukewarm. John stepped into the shower after peeling off his shirt and boxers. The warmish water was actually comforting as it washed away the sweat from his night. Nightmares. He sighed and pressed his head on the cool tile. Unwanted nightmares every other night. His only solace was when his dreams were filled with long limbs, curly hair and grey eyes. He shook his head in the water as he began to massage the cheap motel shampoo in his short blond hair. It was one time! The only good part of the dream was when he was able to punch the sod in the mouth. He could almost smell the blood dripping from his mouth. Blood, on those lips. Full lips kissing his body that was dripped in-

Soap! He grabbed the soap and quickly lathered his body and rinsed. Not dallying on any body parts in case they got ideas, they had a mind of their own these days; he jumped out of the quick 10-minute shower and wrapped a towel around his neck before picking up the robe left hanging on the doorway. It was nice for a motel brand robe. He was, honestly, surprised he even received one but who was complaining? Not him, surely. The material was soft and supple yet strong and sturdy. The only tacky thing on it was the motel's logo: The Sunshine Motel.

John put his new robe on and walked into his small room and sat on his bed. 'squeak' He pulled out his laptop and began searching online for a job that might entice him. John opened his email and sifted through junk and potential jobs from job websites he had signed up for. It had been a week since his visit to Harriett and he still hadn't had luck. He sighed and massaged his forehead. Cup of tea sounded wonderful, the lack of available space in his room was giving him a headache. Claustrophobic.

-Ping! New Email.

'Bodyguard' was all it said, the email was simple yet abundant in information.

'We are looking for someone with military expertise, minimum 3 years. Must have a clean driving record and be willing to work 24hrs. Will provide living expenses within the house and a car. Must be comfortable with guns and will be responsible in providing maximum security. Please attach resume. Government issued privacy, pay determined by experience.'

Excitement. This was…perfect. He knew bodyguards received large amounts of money and it was government sponsored, whoever this person was had to be important. John opened his resume and read it over. It looked all right, he had recently fixed it and though it may not be the strongest resume, it was definitely what the person was looking for. He began to compose an email and attached his resume before sending it over. He got up and began to dry his hair with the towel when

-Ping!

Surprise. Hesitance. He leaned over and checked his email and held his breath. His "employer" had sent an email in return with an address.

'Bring your own gun and ammunition. Paperwork regarding military history is also requested. Join us at this address at 11:00, today."

11:00… John looked at the clock and his heart stammered a bit. That was in 30 minutes. He quickly typed in the address into his phone and put away his laptop. He reached under his bed and pulled out his bag from under his bed and unzipped it. His SIG-Sauer L105A2 lay on top of his clothes. He picked it up and relished the feel of cold metal against his hand. Familiar. No time to reminisce as the clock made an impatient 'tik'. Quickly grabbing his stripped dress shirt, he shrugged off his robe and buttoned excitedly. He tucked the gun into the back of his pants and put on a heavy but baggy jacket to cover the dangerous bump. He was tripping over his feet as he tried to put on his socks and shoes while walking towards the door. With a quick look around, he made sure everything looked ok before closing the door after him.

'Tok'

It was a blur how he got to the house. Large house. Mansion. He held his breath as he pushed the buzzer to the gate. Even the buzzer was shiny; he could almost see his finger print on the gleam of it. The gate had been personally crafted; a large H in italicized font was proudly placed in the middle. Each bar was hand polished and though black, gleamed in the afternoon sun. What he would do to live in just the yard of this house.

'Name and Business?'

John cleared his throat, which had suddenly become dry, and looked at the camera that swiveled his way.

"John Watson, I'm here for a job interview."

The camera made a 'zzzz' sound; his face was being zoomed into.

'Follow these specific directions, John Watson. You are to enter the gate and step into the vehicle as soon as the doors open. Do not ask questions and do as you are ordered.'

John nodded. Simple enough, it was just like the military; following orders. The gate swung open after what felt like ten minutes, he checked his watch, it had only been two, and a sleek black car pulled up to him. The door opened and John climbed in.

"You are 3 minutes late Mr. Watson."

Even though it was daylight, the car was dark. Strangely dark and it took a bit of time for his eyes to adjust to the lighting. But his ears perked when he heard that voice. It was familiar. It was the man at the coffee shop, he was sure of it. What was his name?

"Mycroft." John murmured in thought. The figure in front of him shifted slightly, could feel the smile on the man's face.

"Good memory. You are the gentleman from the coffee shop."

"Good memory." John offered back. Something was bothering him. He felt like he needed to exit the car. It was a game; predator and prey. And assumable, he was the prey.

"You may consider this a coincidence but let me correct that thought for you. I've asked for you personally John, may I call you John?"

John nodded.

"My younger brother-"

"Sherlock." John's mouth closed so fast his teeth clicked together. He didn't mean to say his name aloud, it was like water rushing from his mouth and his teeth couldn't stop it.

Mycroft smiled. "Yes, Sherlock. Has become the attention of a rather interesting character. I've noticed the pattern and Sherlock has become rather infatuated with this person as well."

Dressed in his black, hand stitched suit, he leaned forward toward John and his eyes hardened, smile depleted.

"I want them separated. Your mission would be to keep Sherlock away from this miscreant. And vice versa. You will have assistance as more of my men will keep the two apart however your main goal is to keep Sherlock within eyesight at all times. To make sure he does not have any foolish ideas to mingle with the wrong crowd."

John was taken back, why keep the two lovers apart?

"Why?"

Mycroft straightened out the imaginary wrinkles in his suit pants and spoke in a low voice.

"My younger brother has decided to indulge in recreational drugs; heroin to be exact. I know for a fact that my brother was not involved until he met this person. And now I want this person gone and my brother back."

Protective. Just like how he was with Harriett.

"Why me?"

"You are patient, I could see it in your face when Sherlock attacked you, my apologize once again. And, well Sherlock has taken an interest in you. I could tell from the way he acted in the car."

John sputtered. "Interest?"

Mycroft was having too much fun; even John could sense the glee in his voice.

"Interest." Affirmation.

John didn't know what to think. Interest like love interest? Interest like friend interest? What interest?

"You are different."

John looked at Mycroft and began to weigh the pros and cons. He was in desperate need of money. His bank account would not hold for very long.

"How much?"

"Your family will be moved into an apartment complex owned by the Holmes family in the… better neighborhood of London. They do not have to pay rent. They will receive 5 grand per month to do whatever they wish. Your sister will be placed in a rehabilitation clinic for her addiction and you, John, will receive another 5 grand a month. You would live with Sherlock in a new place of course and all food, clothes, and anything else you need, will be taken care of. "

John was taken back; this man had so much information about his family. He tried to be angry with this man for prying into his life but the pros were blaring in his brain as he processed. He would receive 10 grand a month, and neither he nor his parents would have to pay rent. His parents wouldn't have to work and they could finally be able to afford rehab for his sister. What choice did he have?

"Alright. When do I start?"

The car's engine turned over and began to drive deeper into the property.

"Now."

Mycroft uncrossed his legs and opened the door as the car halted. John walked back out from the darkness and into the sunlight. He squinted his eyes from the bright sun.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: The Breakup

"John, your first job. There is an infestation in the house. Get rid of it." Cold.

John nodded and began to walk away from the car, failing to realize that Mycroft was not following him until the sound of the car door slamming shut.

"Mycroft?"

John heard the gears shift in the car before it drove off past the gleaming gate. He realized he left his papers in the car but he could only assume the papers were just a precautionary matter. Mycroft probably had access to all of his information if he wanted it, without his consent. He took another step forward towards the door. Hesitance, nervous. Sherlock was just another brat that was spoiled from his parent's money, that didn't know any manners, that John had lewd dreams of… John groaned in exasperation. And now, he was his employer. John could still opt out, he was not forced into taking this job. His foot moved forward. Constantly forward.

'Knock, knock'

John's concentration finally reeled into his hand that was now knocking on the beautifully carved door. African Blackwood. One of the rarest types of wood and here it was in front of him. It was unnecessary to have this kind of wood as a door.

The door flew open and a kind of mousy figure stood in front of him. His dark black hair was slicked black, a sly smile on his face. He was wearing a maroon red dress shirt and dark slacks that fitted him well. He practically hung off the door.

'High' John concluded.

"Uh oh, has daddy sent the big boys to play?" He said in a singsong voice.

John knew mockery when it was implied and in this case, tossed in his face. He stood straighter and held his ground.

"Where is Sherlock?"

The man laughed and almost relinquished his hold on the one stable thing near him, practically falling over.

"He's not herreeee."

John felt his patience being tested and clenched his hand in a fist. What Mycroft said about him was just Mycroft being politically nice. John was not patient; he just knew when it was appropriate to throw a fist.

"Jim? Jim, who are you talking to?"

John held his breath as he saw curls behind the open door. He was just like John remembered, tall and handsome, prestigious in his own way.

"Sherlyyy, you were supposed to stay insideeee. We were going to make him play with us."

Sherly. Sherlock. John felt a feeling of elevation in his chest as those grey found his brown ones. A hitch in his throat as Sherlock smirked at him. A tinge of jealousy as Jim grabbed Sherlock around the neck to pull him close. Anger when Sherlock was pulled in, by the shorter man, to plant a rough kiss on those lips. John felt the tension in the air as he watched Sherlock's hair be crudely pulled by this…rodent. Sherlock pushed him away and gave Jim a scorned look.

"We talked about public affection, Jim. You know I find it superfluous."

Jim shrugged his shoulders, his concern suddenly on John. Electricity was an accurate description that filled the air. Shocking, screeching, uncomfortable.

"Sherly, I want to play." A purr, directed towards Sherlock but eyes directed at John.

"You need to leave." John finally found his voice. It was gruff and pointed. Even he was amazed at how staunch he sounded. Jim released Sherlock and began to sway as he tried to stand properly. He looked limbless as he stood straight but when he walked toward John, his body was poised and his eyes flashed dangerously. Feline.

"Says the big man on duty." His voice a sneer, condescending. Jim was close, too close. He could feel the sleeker haired man's breath on his face bit his tongue.

"What did daddy tell you to do? Hmm? Did he tell you to get me to leave?"

Jim smiled, white teeth gleaming. John stood still as Jim twirled around and walked toward Sherlock, skipping slightly.

"Sher-sher." Jim's voice was smooth. "I don't want to go home." A pout.

John just about had enough. He began to walk straight to Jim and grabbed his arm. Adrenaline pumped in his blood, air filled his lungs and was expelled quickly. His left hand grabbed behind him towards the Sig. He was ready to pull it from his waist, away from his belt, when Sherlock lightly touched John's arm.

"Jim, it's over." Small. Sad. Strict.

John was startled. Jim was frozen. Sherlock walked towards John and stood within close proximity. John could practically feel the heat radiating off the dark haired man. Sherlock turned and motioned towards the driveway. A shiny red Porsche 911 pulled onto the driveway. A man in a simple suit exited the car, the engine still running.

"I don't believe it." Jim drawled lazily. "You _want_ me to leave?" He shook his head grinning manically. "You pick _HIM_ over me?" A laugh echoed around them. John could feel Sherlock shrink slightly, as the laugh racked his body. John stepped in front of Sherlock to protect him from… what? The laughter, the emotional abuse? He wasn't sure but he felt he was a barrier that could protect Sherlock. Jim looked at the two of them, still grinning; he shrugged and walked toward the Porsche. As he passed the taller man he stopped for a split second and leaned toward him said in a low voice.

"You **will** crawl back to me and beg for me back." Sherlock straightened out his suit and walked inside the house, out of sight.

John watched Jim get in the car. The squeal of the tires against the pavement and hearing the car backfire as the mousy man retreated to the hole he came from, was one of the most satisfying emotions he had had in long period of time.


	4. Chapter 4

Sadly, Sherlock is not mine

I know the chapters have been getting shorter and shorter but hopefully it's more suspenseful for you as you continue to read.

Please feel free to comment to inform me how I'm doing and if you are enjoying this! It helps me to write hehe.

Thank you for reading~ 3

* * *

Chapter 4; I want that.

John needed to adjust his eyes. The sun was still at its apex in the sky. The rays were beating down but did nothing to lighten the dark curtains that were casted in the house. He passed a few dark blurs, nodding as he walked along; he could only assume maids and butlers. They offered him tea and scones as he walked by but John politely refused and instead asked where Sherlock's room was. One of the maids, a girl not much younger than he, smiled softly and pointed to his room. A small blush tainted her cheeks as he thanked her and offered her a smile.

The living room was beautiful. It really represented the high-class life that Sherlock was in. The rugs looked like an exotic animal, which he was almost certain was real. The couch was nothing like he had seen, beautiful lightwood curling around the soft, plush mattress. It was like a bed that one could lounge on. He could imagine Sherlock lying on that couch, his limbs too long and lanky, falling off the mattress, his white skin contrasting against the material, his grey eyes flicking up to meet his, his lingering fingers touching John's wrist as he pulled him closer. John closed his eyes and tried to block out the mental images flashing through his head. He hadn't realized he had walked straight up to the couch and had his hand resting on the wood.

"Are you alright?" It was the maid. Her long brown hair was pulled to the side and she had cute small pink lips.

John nodded, 'focus.' She is cute. Sherlock is not. Sherlock is a twat who just threw me into his relationship problems and is probably going to make my life a miserable rollercoaster. John excused himself before walking straight to Sherlock's room. It was time for him to be a bodyguard and not some tourist that came to see a lavished house. John knocked on the door and waited a reply. When he heard nothing, he pushed the door open and was shocked and appalled at the sight.

"Sherlock?"

John rushed over to him, he noted the bottles on the table, the folded papers filled with a white substance, a syringe, haphazardly thrown on the table next to his bed and he was careful to not touch any of it. Sherlock was on his back, his eyes closed. John could feel the cold sweat tinge his skin as he reached over him and checked for Sherlock's inhale or exhale of breath. He found none.

"SOMEONE CALL 911!"

John pulled Sherlock's head back and opened his airway. He began to perform CPR.

'Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.'

John didn't remember much of anything when he was sitting on Sherlock's floor with his head leaning back on the bed. The adrenaline was like a drug, erasing his memories, making it all a blur. He laughed inwardly, how is he was fine in the army yet this imbecilic child could make him feel like he lost control of everything.

John remember pumping the ebony's haired man's chest 30 times before giving him a breath for 2 times. At least he was able to remember basic CPR while the rest of his brain was numb. He remembered being shoved away and sat there watching Sherlock's long limp body being carried out of the room. He licked his lips and cringed at the taste. His first job and he was doing a fantastic f-ing job.

-Bzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz

John dug the mobile from his pocket and put it back down. He didn't want to talk to anyone, let alone an unknown number. The caller went to voicemail but they had redialed his number.

-Bzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

This time John pushed the 'End' button, which automatically sent the caller to voicemail. 'Leave me alone.'

-Ping!

John looked at his phone again. A voicemail? No, a text message.

_John, it's Mycroft. Answer the bloody phone._

-Bzzzz-

"Hello?"

"John, we knew something like this was coming. We've taken him to the ER and he is having his stomach pumped. I have sent a few movers to collect your things. They should have you moved in by tonight. Also, your family is currently being relocated. Make yourself at home; Sherlock should be back within a week."

John nodded to no one in particular. The world was not spinning, at a standstill, and everything was moving in slow motion. He heard the click of the phone and rested his head on his hands. Why was this affecting him so much? He barely knew this person.

'Because it was a mission and you botched it.' His mind provided for him. It was true, John had never faulted in the army, except for the shot to his upper torso region but that was not his fault. He stood up and stood in a military like fashion. He turned and closed the door behind him, nodding to the few maids who were armed with heavy gloves to clean the mess.

His week felt like years but it also felt like water slipping through his fingers. Time was such a fickle thing, when he was alone he felt as though disappointment was taunting him, poking his wounds and making them throb. Time never felt so slow. But when he was busy helping the movers unload boxes, helping his parents put forks into their new kitchen, hold Harry's hand while she tried to not shake from the withdrawals, time passed so quickly. He even had become friends with some of the maids and butlers, helping them open the curtains and brightening up the house, saying hello as they passed by, and even offering a hand when the cute maid he met the first day was having trouble picking up a vase from the top shelf. They exchanged a moment before she hurried off to fill it with water for the newly cut flowers.

"Emily…" She said softly when he asked her for her name.

It had not occurred to Sherlock that a week had passed (or had it?) when Sherlock was brought home. The taller man did not say a word but limped slightly in pain toward his room and shut it closed. John felt a rush when he saw Sherlock, he's back, he's fine, and he's here. He waited a few minutes before knocking on the door.

"Hey, Sherlock?"

No answer. John opened the door and found Sherlock lying in a fetal position, his back away from John. The curtain had been drawn, making the room dark.

"I see you've become comfortable living my life." A deride from the still figure. John cringed; he _was _indulging himself to having a roof over his head, eating the food prepared by the cooks, feeling the freedom of having no responsibilities towards expenditures. They stood there in uncomfortable silence, both perfectly still.

"You've grown fat." John almost laughed. Was that supposed to be offensive to him? He had only packed 2 lbs since they had last seen each other.

"You've grown thin." John retorted. He bit the inside of his cheek when he noticed the body curl slightly tighter. It was true, Sherlock's body looked as though he had lost a few pounds, his body was like bones and skin.

"Would you like something to eat?"

Sherlock shook his head no.

"Alright, I'll get you something."

John picked up the phone hanging on the wall and punched 0. He turned toward the wall as the phone rang, looking at the mismatched wallpaper and strange posters on the walls.

"Yes sir, what can I get for you?" John smiled; he knew that voice.

"Emily! Yeah, can I get some soup for Sherlock? And a bit of toast for me? Yeah, with the jam, you know how to make it best."

John hung up the phone and turned towards Sherlock, only to be surprised. Sherlock had sat up in bed and was staring at John.

"Since when did you get so friendly with Emily?"

Was Sherlock psychic? "How did you know that was Emily?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "She is the only girl here who is younger than you, I'm assuming you're 26?"

"25."

"Who would be of interest to you considering she is the only younger girl here."

John shook his head in disbelief.

"What if I have a girlfriend? Or like older women?"

Sherlock scoffed as he tried to stand. He winced slightly but was able to walk over to his bookshelf.

"You were at that coffee shop, alone. Your black duffle bag had a patch from the army, an obvious item that shows you just came back from the military. The fact that you were not with a girl, is an obvious statement that you do not have a girlfriend. Also i know you were not waiting for someone as you had just walked there, I saw you bump into that girl before forcing yourself to dish out a few dollars for that coffee. That's the other thing, you don't have money. Women usually find men who are poor or lacking a job uninteresting. It would be very hard for you to find someone that is not so superficial these days. Also, you seem like the uptight, one man, one girl type of person, and you eyeing the coffee attendant was another sure sign that you are single and you enjoy a girl who is shorter than you, a hard worker and someone that smiles quite a bit."

"Stalker."

Sherlock was looking, almost desperately through his bookshelf. Bending and turning his body, John watched as Sherlock's his fingers began to scratch the books searching for something.

"They took the stash you hid there."

Sherlock's fingers froze before he turned around and faced John.

"I was not stalking you, I was just being observant." John noticed the slight shake in Sherlock's voice. The sandy blonde walked over and took his employer by the elbow to lead him to the bed.

"You need to rest."

_-_knock knock

"Come in."

Emily walked in with a tray of food and waited as John helped Sherlock sit up. She placed the small table on his bed and offered a tray, with toast and jam, to John.

"Thank you." John was ready to make small conversation with her when Sherlock waved his hand and she immediately left the room.

"Ah…" John watched her leave and gave Sherlock a pointed look.

"What was that then?" John said grumpily.

Sherlock picked up his spoon with broth and lifted the spoon up to his chest before pouring the contents back into the bowl.

"They expect me to eat this?" The soup had splattered on the tray, his clothes, on the bed.

"Oi! You're getting everything dirty!" Sherlock frowned at John before dropping the spoon with a loud clatter.

John stared at him. Sherlock was a child! A spoiled rotten child. But John knew this, John signed up for this, he knew this was coming. He sighed before taking a bite of his toast defeated. Sherlock was watching him with larger than usual eyes. _Crunch_.

John watched as Sherlock lifted a hand, his finger pointed at him.

" I want that."

* * *

*Emily is a random character I created.

*Sherlock will not be like this through the whole story. He is just recovering from the addiction and getting his stomach pumped.


	5. Chapter 5

I do not own Sherlock

Sorry for the late update!

Enjoy~ Comments would be lovely (:

* * *

John paced his room. It was bad enough that he had moved into the Holmes's residence but when the spoiled child was normally calling him every few minutes to his room was suddenly quiet for over a week, it was more than perplexing. The maids were constantly rushing into his room with food and medicine but he was not allowed into the room.

"I'm sorry; Mr. Holmes specifically requested you do not enter his room." John looked at the butler in frustration.

John had watched the maids scurry into Sherlock's room as the days progressed, each of the maids carrying their food back out but the medicine disappearing. Even John knew that for medicine to really take effect, you needed food.

"Mark, I need some toast."

The butler nodded and gave another nod to the maid standing next to him. She nodded her head and turned towards the kitchen.

"Mark, I need to go in there, as his bodyguard, I can tell that he is not taking care of himself and who better to protect him then his bodyguard?"

Mark's white mustache twitched as his mouth puckered in thought.

"But Master Holmes…"

"Yes, Sherlock informed you not to let me through but what if you went to the bathroom for a bit and I'll keep watch."

Mark's face scrunched in worry, even the butler knew that Sherlock was using the medication as a placebo to feel better and that no matter what the maids or even he said would change the addiction that Sherlock could not seem to let go of.

Without a word, Mark turned and began to walk towards the restroom leaving John alone with the door, his last obstacle, before seeing this man that he could not seem to leave alone.

John hesitantly touched the door handle and pushed the door open.

Within the first step he took, the smell of vomit singed his nose hairs. John could feel his gag reflex reacting and tried to control his stomach as he looked at Sherlock's bed.

There he was, sweating, sleeping, and mumbling. John looked over at the side of his bed and could see the trashcan filled with murky water. Obviously the medication was not sitting well with Sherlock.

"Moriarty…"

John looked back at Sherlock's face and made a face of discomfort. A small knock came from the door and the maid handed John the toast before quietly closing the door again. John turned away from the door when he heard a haggard cough come from behind him.

"So they let you in, even with my specific orders."

John's heart sunk. Sherlock's deep baritone voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper, his face whiter than usual, his body limp and weak.

"Sherlock…"

He held the toast up to him as an offering. "You really should eat something before taking your meds."

John could hear Sherlock's weak scoff and watched as Sherlock tried to turn over in his bed.

"Annoying."

"Excuse me?"

"Annoying, John."

John's glare couldn't have been more intense. Such a prat! Even when weak and sick and dying he was a prat.

"Sherlock. Eat this."

Sherlock looked at the toast and looked away.

"No."

"Sherlock, eat this and you will feel better."

"No."

"Grahh! Why do you act like this?"

Sherlock looked at John and frowned.

"Like what?"

"Like a spoiled child! I understand you're sick but I know you are refusing to eat when you know it will make you feel better."

Sherlock glared at him with as much strength as he could muster. Who did he think this person was? John should feel lucky that Sherlock had chosen him to be the bodyguard. This poor man who had no influence in the world was reprimanding him? An idea formed in Sherlock's head as he watched John breathe harshly, his hands balled in fists.

"Very well, I will indulge in your anger and eat this. In return, you will do me a favor."

John pursued his lips. "A favor? What kind of favor?"

"What does it matter? If I am not well, Mycroft will know. You will get in trouble and lose your job."

" I could tell him it's your fault." John offered back.

Sherlock gave a weak smile. "Yes, but you are still suppose to protect me. Even from myself, if you read the contract, you would have seen that."

John stepped closer with the bread and put the plate on Sherlock's lap.

"Ok. Fine. Now eat the bloody bread."

"I cant, I'm too weak. Feed me."

If John could punch this dark haired albino goose, he would have, but he had his family he had to think about.

"Is this your favor?"

Sherlock shook his head no. And John laughed in thankfulness. Feeding Sherlock, another grown man, was an embarrassing situation that he did not want to be caught in.

"Good, get your butler to do it. I'm sure Mark would love to feed you."

John said as he turned around and walked out the door

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I'm sorry it's so short! I promise to get out another chapter by next week _ 3


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